Unconscious Decisions
by ponygirl72
Summary: 9th Doctor, Rose. Rose waits helplessly while the Doctor hovers between life and death, unconscious. But the Doctor's unconscious is a very complicated place...


_Author's Note: Aplologies to Paul Cornell. My motto is "steal from the best", so I stole from him._

**Unconscious Decisions**

Rose Tyler sighed and adjusted her position, trying to get comfortable, leaning against the dingy concrete wall of the prison block. The sturdy, padlocked collar around her neck chafed against her skin as the heavy chain running between it and the wall shifted.

Grumbling, she strummed her fingers rhythmically against the floor. It was all very well being arrested for treason and threatened with a painful and undignified execution, but they didn't have to leave her chained up like someone's pet dog for hours on end. They hadn't even left her a guard to keep her company.

Just because she'd pointed out that lobbing an experimental doomsday missile at the capital city of the people who were trying to peacefully secede from the nation-state wasn't really a very nice thing to do...

The Doctor had cringed a bit when she started haranguing the officials, and hadn't looked all that surprised when the guards arrived to haul her off under arrest, merely mouthing "I'll get you out in a bit" to her as she was dragged away. She wasn't irritated with him- not really- since she understood that one of them had to be free in order to stop the missile from going up. But he did seem to be taking his sweet time-

A siren pierced the quiet of the afternoon.

Rose grinned, craning around to look towards the entrance. Five seconds later the Doctor burst through, sliding to a halt as his eyes settled on her uncomfortable resting place in the corner.

"Time to leave," he said cheerfully.

Rose mutely lifted the chain at her neck and gave the end bolted to the wall a quick couple of tugs by way of demonstration.

"Ah... right," he replied, crossing the room quickly as he rummaged for the sonic screwdriver. He examined the lock at her neck, and directed a short burst of blue light towards it, then frowned and adjusted the settings before trying again.

"So," Rose began conversationally, "were you able to stop the missile?"

"Yes and no," he hedged, examining the chain and the ring where it bolted into the masonry wall. "The launch sequence has been activated, but they've just discovered a very unfortunate malfunction of the locking clamps holding the missile in place. So when the missile tries to lift off..."

"'Boom'?" Rose offered.

"I believe the technical term is 'Ka-boom'. They're evacuating as we speak."

"So when do the fireworks go off, then?"

"Five minutes, seventeen seconds," he said, meeting her eyes, "and we have a problem."

She looked at him questioningly, feeling a tingle of fear for the first time.

"This padlock isn't made of normal metal. It's completely nonconductive- the sonic screwdriver won't work. We need the key, or a strong piece of wire, maybe..."

Rose cast her mind back. "Keys... keys... yes! Top left desk drawer- over there!" she gestured towards the prison's office area, and the Doctor sprinted over to the metal desk and rummaged around.

"Got it!" he exclaimed with a grin, but then his face fell as he hefted a large keyring with dozens of identical looking keys. He ran back to her and randomly picked a key, thrusting it into the lock and wiggling it back and forth before going on to the next one. And the next one. And the next one.

Rose's heart began to pound in earnest as she watched him work through the keys with mechanical precision.

"Doctor," she said shakily, "There's no time. No point in both of us getting blown into tiny bits. You should leave..."

He looked up from the key he was testing to meet her eyes.

"Tough," he answered shortly, and focussed on the keys again.

"But, Doctor..."

"Shut it," he added matter-of-factly, not even looking up this time.

Rose closed her eyes against the knowledge that she was finally going to get both of them killed, feeling the seconds dragging by heavily. With each new key, she felt the collar tug her neck slightly as he tried the lock, until-

Click.

The collar fell away, and the Doctor grabbed her hand.

"Run," his voice rumbled in her ear, and they were running.

He pulled her along, and she used his firm grip to add a fraction of speed to every stride, knowing that as much as he was hurrying her along, she was slowing him down. _No time- no time- no time_ echoed in her mind as she ran. At last, they rounded a corner to see the TARDIS at the end of the corridor.

As they sprinted for the ship, Rose could hear the Doctor counting down the seconds over the blood rushing in her ears. Five meters from salvation, he shouted, "No time. Down!" and pushed her to the floor, covering her body full-length with his own just as the biggest explosion Rose had ever heard echoed through the complex.

Everything shook crazily, and this time there was no sturdy closet to protect them as debris rained down from the ceiling. Rose felt a sharp impact rock the Doctor. He grunted in reaction and then went limp on top of her, crushing her against the floor.

After a few moments, the noise and shaking faded to an ominous, low rumble as the building shifted uneasily. With no electricity, the corridor was darker than a moonless night. Rose fought against a feeling of panicky claustrophobia as she wiggled out from under the dead weight of her companion's unconscious form, trying not to jar him more than necessary.

Finally free, her eyes were drawn to an indistinct glow visible through the clouds of choking dust in front of her. The TARDIS! It had to be- they'd almost reached it when the bomb went off. Feeling her way forward carefully, she picked through the rubble until her hand brushed the peeling paint, then leaned against the panelling in relief, letting the low hum of the time machine comfort her as she fumbled for the lock and opened the doors.

Light from the interior flooded the corridor, and she stumbled back to the Doctor, afraid of what she would find. He lay face down, still unresponsive. The dust obscured the details of his injuries, but her hands found the reassuring double pulse in his neck.

The building groaned again, and shuddered as important structural components began to fail. She didn't want to move him without knowing how badly he was hurt, but Rose knew that his condition would not be improved if the complex collapsed on top of them. Gritting her teeth and trying to control her coughing, she rolled him onto his back. Grabbing the back of his jacket's collar, she used the sturdy material as a handle and began to drag him, inch by inch, toward the TARDIS doors, supporting his head and neck as well as she was able.

She had barely gotten him clear of the doorway when all hell broke loose outside. She lunged past him, slamming the doors shut just as the ceiling came down on top of them.

The sudden silence and peace inside was almost shocking. The ancient time ship, designed to withstand the rigors of the Vortex, was unimpressed by the collapse of one little building.

_Hordes of Ghengis Khan_, thought Rose giddily, kneeling by the unconscious Time Lord. Blood, caked with dust, spidered across the left side of his face. Tracing it up to his scalp, she discovered the place where part of the ceiling had fallen on his head. It looked bad, but how bad? She knew she wouldn't be able to get him to the medical bay by herself. Loathe to leave him, but knowing that she had to have medical supplies, she ran for the lab, trying to think of everything she would need.

**o-o-o**

The Doctor groaned, flinging an arm across his face to block out the light.

"Easy there, young fellow," said a kindly voice. "You've had quite a knock on the head."

Gentle hands eased him up into a sitting position, and he carefully opened his eyes. After a moment, the room swam into focus, revealing a vast library with shelves of books reaching into the distance. The Doctor turned his attention to the good samaritan who had roused him, and groaned again, louder this time.

"Oh, no."

The slender, elderly man smiled a beautiful smile that softened his sharp, patrician features and caused his dark eyes to twinkle merrily.

"Oh, yes," said the First Doctor.

**o-o-o **

Some time later, Rose sat back against the railing around the console, exhausted. The medical scanner showed no spinal injuries, so she'd dragged in an air mattress and bedding and moved him on to it. She'd managed to get the jacket off in one piece, knowing that he'd kill her if she cut it off him, but for the jumper she'd resorted to scissors.

Now he was hooked up to a blood pressure cuff, heart and brainwave monitors, and she'd cleaned off as much of the blood and dust as she could, and sealed the head wound. The medical computer diagnosed concussion and recommended supportive care. Prognosis unknown.

She settled in to wait for him to wake up, and tried not to think what would happen if he didn't.

**o-o-o **

The First Doctor and the Ninth Doctor walked slowly through the Library.

"This is all a manifestation of your unconscious mind, young fellow," said the white haired man. "Apparently there is something here you must do before you return to the 'waking world', as it were."

The Ninth Doctor looked down at the old man sharply, an idea forming.

"And all of my previous selves are here?"

"All but the second. That life was confiscated by the Time Lords, and no longer exists in our mind," replied the elderly man sadly.

But the other Doctor's attention was already elsewhere.

"Then it's just as well it's not him I need to see, innit? he asked absently, his features hardening as he contemplated his own more recent past, and the decisions made just before his current regeneration. "Well, then, I'm off. Need to talk to a man about a War. Thanks, Grandad."

Clapping the old man on the shoulder, he turned and walked out of the Library, leaving the First Doctor shaking his head and tutting in disapproval.

**o-o-o **

The Library opened out into a featureless void, empty of any landmarks. Attuned to loss as he was after the death of his planet and people, the Doctor could sense the absence of his second incarnation, the clownish little man whose memories and soul should have resided in this part of his mind.

But his second self had slowed down enough to let the Time Lords catch up, and they had dealt harshly with his penchant for interference in the affairs of others, forcing his regeneration and exiling him on Earth.

Idly, he wondered what the gentle Second Doctor would have made of the Time War, and his own involvement in it.

Maybe it was better after all that he wasn't here to have seen it.

**o-o-o**

Without warning, the featureless white mists that cloaked what would have been the Second Doctor's domain cleared, revealing a grim fortress overlooking an empty, windblown landscape. The main gate was open, as if he was expected, and a tall, white-haired figure stood above him on the battlement, cape blowing in the wind.

Entering, the Ninth Doctor made his way to the top of the imposing stone structure and crossed to the lone watchman.

"Still standing guard against enemies from within, I see," he said.

The Third Doctor inclined his head in acknowledgment.

"Somebody has to," he replied mildly, looking searchingly at the Ninth's face.

The latest doctor returned the look openly. "And am I an enemy from within?"

"Not yet. It depends on what you decide to do when you find the person for whom you're looking."

The Ninth Doctor turned away to leave.

"Maybe it's the one I'm looking for who's the enemy," he said over his shoulder.

**o-o-o **

The Doctor crossed the barren landscape until he came upon a wide, slow-moving river. On the other side, in the distance, the graceful spires of a dreaming city reached for the sky above.

A gentle splash broke the stillness, and as if from nowhere, a rough ferry appeared, piloted by a tall, bohemian man with curly hair, a ridiculously long scarf wrapped around his neck several times.

"Need a lift?" asked the Fourth Doctor, smiling widely.

Some time later, the Ferryman broke the silence, never faltering as he expertly poled the raft along the quiet water.

"Interesting thing, responsibility," he said out of nowhere.

"Is it?" replied the Ninth Doctor absently.

"Oh, yes, absolutely," the Fourth Doctor nodded with wide-eyed conviction. "I mean- think about it- every event, every tragedy... take a war, for instance. You look at some person who precipitated a horrible event in a war, and think, 'that's his fault,' but maybe earlier, some other person had a chance to wipe out the enemy before they even _were_ the enemy, but that person didn't do it. Perhaps _that_ person is responsible. And someone else had a chance to release a virus that could have decimated the enemy, but they held back. Maybe it's their fault. Who's really responsible, eh?"

The ferry shuddered as it grated against the far shore of the river, and the Ninth Doctor disembarked.

"Who's responsible?" he asked rhetorically. "The person who thought it would be a really great plan to let his entire race die in order to defeat the enemy. That's who."

**o-o-o **

Passing through the trees lining the river, the Doctor found himself looking out across a perfectly groomed cricket pitch. A lone figure stood in the nets, practicing with a pitching machine in the late afternoon sun.

Approaching the batter, he sighed and shook his head.

"Okay, yeah, _this_ isn't at all predictable..."

The younger blonde man straightened, looking around himself blankly before focussing on the visitor.

"What?" asked the Fifth Doctor plaintively.

The Ninth shook his head in despair. "Not important, never mind. Go back to playing with your stick and balls."

He started off, only to be halted by the younger man's shrewd voice.

"So you can go do something you'll regret later, you mean?"

He turned back to face his younger self. "Who says I'll regret it?"

The blonde man leaned his bat against a post and stuffed his hands in his pockets, regarding his visitor closely.

"It's been my experience that when the Daleks are involved, it's alarmingly easy for our ethics to go down the proverbial tubes. You're familiar with the phenomenon yourself, I believe. Just offering a friendly reminder that perhaps it could be avoided in this case, that's all."

The Ninth Doctor's face twisted in an ugly expression.

"Still the self-appointed conscience of us all, are you?" he asked sarcastically. "Well, save it. I don't need any lectures on moral clarity from you, thanks all the same," he snapped, striding off and disappearing into the pavilion at the edge of the pitch.

The Fifth Doctor watched him go sadly.

"If not me, then who?" he sighed.

**o-o-o**

The door opened into a classy restaurant, one wall taken up by a massive picture window overlooking a glittering cityscape. A lone figure sat staring out of the expanse of glass, a goblet of red wine held thoughtfully in one hand. The curly blonde head turned toward the newcomer slowly, revealing a broad face and a piercing gaze.

"Well, well, well," said the large, colorfully dressed man, "I should have known you were going to make an appearance."

The Ninth Doctor raised his eyebrows. "And I should have known I'd find you tucking in at the feed trough."

The Sixth Doctor leaned back in his chair, amused. "Oh, I don't know... I find that an appreciation for fine food and wine leads to far fewer complexities than most other 'pleasures of the flesh', don't you?"

He indicated the empty chair across from him. "Care to join me? Perhaps we can elevate your palate beyond that bewildering predilection for greasy, vinegar-soaked chips."

The Ninth Doctor shook his head. "Not today."

"Hmm, no, I suppose not... business before pleasure and all that, eh? And of course you have to look after your girlish figure," the Sixth Doctor's gaze swept up and down the Ninth's lanky frame. "Though while you're at it you might want to do something about that jacket..." He eyed the battered leather with distaste.

The jacket's owner let out a surprised bark of laughter as he regarded his former self's own wildly colored excuse for outerwear.

"You always were completely obnoxious," he said, admiration tinging his voice.

"Who, me?" replied the blonde man, all innocence except for the twinkle in his eye. "Nonsense! I'm just an overgrown pussycat."

Sobering, he leaned forward to regard his visitor closely.

"What you're planning on doing isn't wise, you know. You're risking our psyche for- what- revenge? A pound of flesh?"

All traces of amusement vanished instantly from the Ninth Doctor's face. He looked down at the seated man coldly.

"Word to the wise, pussycat. Stay out of the way of the big, bad wolf." Turning on his heel, he strode out of the restaurant.

The Sixth Doctor raised his wine glass, watching the glint of light in the ruby depths thoughtfully.

"Who's afraid of the big, bad wolf?" he murmured after the retreating back. "More to the point, who's the big, bad wolf afraid of?"

**o-o-o**

The Ninth Doctor stepped out into a dim alleyway, the shadows of the tall buildings partially obscuring the dumpsters and trash cans. He made his way out to the sunlit main street, taking in the wide sidewalks and cheerful shop fronts that could have been part of any large, cosmopolitan city that you'd care to name.

Half a block down, a small, unassuming figure in a crumpled linen suit sat on a stool in front of one of the shops, juggling at least half a dozen colored balls. A folding card table next to him held a pack of cards, three walnut shells, and various other props. A straw hat lay upside down on the sidewalk at his feet.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," said the Ninth Doctor as he approached, looking down at the little man who had given Daleks nightmares, and caused Ogrons to wet themselves in terror. If he'd hoped to throw off the Seventh Doctor's juggling, he was disappointed- his younger self's eyes flicked over to meet his, and the shorter man neatly caught all six balls from the air without even looking.

"Not fallen, just... retired," he replied with a charming, slightly shy smile. "So what brings you to the 'theatre of the mind' today?"

"Unfinished business... as well you know."

"Ah, yes," said the Seventh Doctor, examining his fingernails, "Unfinished business... curse of the Time Lords." His dark gaze snapped back to the taller man. "Well... Time _Lord_," he corrected himself. "You do realize," he continued, "that it's not his fault the Daleks won't stay dead."

The Ninth Doctor met the little man's piercing gaze head on.

"They'll stay dead this time. Along with everyone else he let die." With that, he turned and strode off down the alleyway.

"Don't be so sure..." said the smaller man with a frown.

**o-o-o **

The alley door opened into an elegantly appointed private box looking down over the stage in a grand opera house. Strains of _Madame Butterfly_ wove through the air. The Eighth Doctor sat, raptly attentive to the stage beneath him, every bit as elegant as his surroundings in Edwardian silk and velvet.

The Ninth Doctor sneered, not even flinching as the door slammed behind him with a bang.

_Pretty boy... useless bloody wanker..._

The younger Doctor turned sharply at the noise, rising from his chair to face the intruder. Surprise was quickly replaced by recognition on his sensitive poet's face as the taller man bore down on him. He made no move to either escape or defend himself as his future self grabbed his coat lapels, slammed him roughly against the low wall at the front of the box and held him there.

He met the furious pale gaze evenly, faces only inches apart.

"I've been expecting you," he said softly.

"Oh, have you?" the older man's face and voice twisted in an ugly caricature of friendliness, at odds with his iron grip and threatening body language. "How nice. Perhaps we should sit down over tea and crumpets while we discuss how you stood by and _WATCHED OUR PLANET BURN!"_

Pain flickered behind the Eighth Doctor's ice blue eyes, but his voice remained steady.

"If you think it would help," he said calmly.

**o-o-o**

A beeping alarm roused Rose from an uneasy, dream-filled doze. She looked around groggily for a moment, trying to pin down the source of the noise. Her eyes settled on the medical monitor with a startled gasp- the heart rate readouts fluctuated wildly, one heart racing madly while the other faltered. The blood pressure reading spiked and then began to plummet precipitously, and brain activity was off the chart.

"No..." she breathed, half denial and half entreaty, turning to the pale form of the Doctor, still and silent on his makeshift cot. "No... you can't die..."

**o-o-o **

"'If I think it would help?' _Help?_" the Doctor shouted into his previous self's face. "What would have _helped _is if you'd done something to SAVE them, or, failing that, if you'd at least had the good sense to die properly afterward! But, no... you weren't _strong_ enough... you weren't_ clever_ enough... and now everybody's gone. And you just get to swan off to your little space in my head, and relax with your Puccini, leaving_ me_ to pick up the shattered pieces of our life!"

He thumped the smaller man against the wall again, desperation and despair warring with the anger on his face.

"Only there aren't any pieces to pick up. They've all been burned away... burned out of time, and now I'm alone... the last..."

Both Doctors looked up as a frightened, female voice filtered down from someplace far away.

"_Doctor, can you hear me? You have to fight! You can't die_," said the tear-choked girl. "_Please don't die... don't leave me alone here... I can't lose you like this..."_

"Rose," the older man said faintly, seeming to crumple in on himself, all traces of aggression draining away.

The Eighth Doctor lifted his hands from where they had hung neutrally by his sides, and grasped his future self's shoulders firmly. Compassion and understanding shone from his features.

"Perhaps not quite so alone as all that, eh?" he asked, a tilt of his chin indicating the invisible, distraught speaker.

"_Please, Doctor! Please don't go..._" Rose's voice wove through the opera house, full of grief and fear.

The Ninth Doctor averted his face as his breath hitched in an almost-sob.

His former self squeezed his shoulders kindly. "You've said that you're not alive by choice. But now it's time to make a decision- live or die. No one can make that decision for you, but I'm asking you to think hard about what you will leave behind if you decide to go. Another thing- death for a Time Lord isn't all it's cracked up to be. Rattling around in here, there's an awful lot of time to think about... things."

The older man raised his head, meeting the other's eyes one last time.

"How do you deal with it?" he whispered roughly.

"What makes you think that I have?" said the other, a sad smile crossing his gentle face as he let the pain show through for a moment.

The Ninth Doctor closed his eyes, nodding, and made his choice.

**o-o-o **

The first thing he was aware of was his hand being held in a death grip, followed closely by the stabbing pain in his head. Cautiously, he cracked open first one eye, then the other, and waited until the blurry figure in front of him resolved itself into what he could only assume was Rose, although in all their travels he had never seen Rose in such a state.

Scared, yes. Adorably rumpled after some life-or-death adventure, yes. But not covered from head to foot in grey dust, cut through with tear tracks and rivulets of dried blood, hair matted and greasy, sobbing her heart out over his hand clenched in both of hers.

"Rose," he whispered hoarsely, squeezing her hands with as much strength as he could muster.

The object of his attention let out a surprised squeak, her eyes snapping open to gawk at him in disbelief. With a strangled sob, she collapsed across his chest, burying her face in the crook of his neck.

Weakly, he lifted his free hand to her head, stroking her dirty hair and making shushing noises until she calmed and raised her head to look at him.

"I thought you were going to die," she said accusingly, voice shaking with emotion. "I thought you were going to leave me."

He reached up to cup her cheek, trying to wipe the tears away but only succeeding in smearing the dirt around.

"Shh, Rose. It's all right. I'll never leave you alone while I have a choice in the matter."

FIN


End file.
